


Family Ties

by LookBetweenTheLines



Series: Complaints of a Hero [8]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Family Dynamics, Gen, Miqo'te culture, Seeker culture, Self-Indulgent, background exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 01:23:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21027962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookBetweenTheLines/pseuds/LookBetweenTheLines
Summary: Eight years after she saw him last, Z'raxi Kira stumbles across her estranged little brother at a Songbirds concert in Gridania of all places.





	Family Ties

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completely self-indulgent one-shot that was not supposed to be this long but oh well. I wanted to expand a little on Z'kila's background, family and character so this is what I came up with. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It was a rare thing indeed for a Seeker huntress to stray from her tribe's territory, Z'raxi pondered with a sigh as she walked the unmarked border the Z tribe shared with their Keeper neighbours. This ought to be a tia's job. It wasn't as though she feared a confrontation with her shadowy cousins, not at all. She was quite capable of handling herself in many kinds of altercation, and besides at midsun it was unlikely she would see any. But the Z'rhale was yet to sire any tias and his predecessor had failed to produce any also. Even the one before him, Z'kira, Z'raxi's own father, had never met his only son, having been killed by a direbear that stormed the camp one tragic night. And that son… well, no one liked to talk about it, though Z'raxi missed her baby brother--her only brother--dearly at times. 

Miqo’te men were a rarity; even many other peoples knew this. But the Z tribe among all the other Seekers were notorious for their apparent inability to produce boys. Every nunh as far back as anyone could remember had been a tia from another tribe. Z’kila had been the first in a fair number of epochs. And now he was gone. Privately Z’raxi had wondered if his being a son of a previous nunh played a part in Z’rhale’s decision to exile him.

Aside from the nunh the only other male the Z tribe could claim was an elderly tia that clung to life like one might a raft in the middle of the ocean despite being so frail he needed the aid of at least two huntresses simply walking. 

Thus the job of maintaining the border belonged to the women for the foreseeable future. A Keeper huntress once laughed at Z'raxi for it when they crossed paths one time. 'You Sun folk rely too much on your men,' she had said. 'Surely this shows you how unnecessary they are? They are good for children and little else.'

Z'raxi bristled at the memory, and she had done much more than bristle at the time. She had secretly longed for a son herself when her time came, to be the one to be honoured the way Z'kila's mother had, but she loved her little one with all her heart regardless. She was just beginning to walk now. Oh, how Z'raxi wished she could be the one to raise her instead of the matron, an elder miqo'te that had retired from hunting. 

'Help! I need aid!' 

Z'raxi turned her ear in the direction of the cry and scanned the shadows. A voice she did not recognise and an accent that was unlike her own, and besides none of her sisters would ever call out like that. When she was confident there was no immediate threat, Z'raxi ran in the direction of the voice. 

She might have guessed it would be an elezen from the dramatic cry and the elongated vowels within it. An adventurer, evidently, completely green with a rough hewn tunic, worn lance and a messenger bag currently caught up in a Keeper net. Z'raxi kept to the shadows while she watched the young elezen hop about like a toad trying to reach the snare, the point of her lance barely brushing the hempen rope. Z'raxi had come across a similar con once before in which a merchant was divested of all but the clothes on his back when he stopped to provide aid, but the young woman kept looking around her helplessly, not impatiently. Whatever was in that bag was important to her and she wouldn't dare part with it to find help. 

Z'raxi stepped forward from the brush.

'Oh, thank the Twelve,' said the adventurer in that crisp, rounded way that Z'raxi found a little pretentious. 'I don't suppose you could lower your trap? My satchel won't make much of a meal,' she added with a nervous sort of giggle. 

It was not her trap, Z'raxi thought, glancing about. She was deep enough now in Keeper territory that it would be difficult to avoid a scuffle if one came by. But the elezen looked so grateful, if a little wary, that it would be cruel to leave without helping now. 'I don't know how,' she admitted. 'But I can try.'

She nocked her bow. The branch it hung to was high and the trunk it belonged to sheer, otherwise she would have tried climbing for it. If the Keepers found their snare cut down and a Seeker arrow in their branches… Well.

'I am headed for Fallgourd Float, you see,' said the adventurer while Z'raxi took aim. 'I have a missive addressed to a Wailer stationed near there. I had thought to rest a while and no sooner had I dropped my satchel it was twelve fulms in the air!'

Z'raxi found her mark on the second attempt and was thankful it took no more than that. The first arrow disappeared into the canopy and the second arched back to the ground, slowed by the rope it cut through. The leather bag fell to the leaf litter with a wet thud and both women darted forward. The adventurer swept up her belongings and Z'raxi bounded after her second arrow. The less evidence left the better, she thought, as she replaced it in her quiver. 

'My thanks!' exclaimed the elezen, gripping Z'raxi's free hand in both her own. It was a gesture as sudden as it was unexpected and she clamped her ears down, frozen until the monstrously tall woman let her go. 'I don't know what I could have done if you had not heard me! It is a terribly important missive, you see.'

'What could be so important?' Z'raxi wondered aloud, setting both hands on her bow lest the woman try to grab her again. She was itching to get off Keeper ground. What a silly place for a rest anyway! 

The adventurer looked all about them as though looking for eavesdroppers, though it would be impossible to see in all the undergrowth. 'Might you keep a secret?' she asked in a rather loud whisper, leaning forward confidentially. It couldn't be such a secret if she was willing to tell a stranger, Z'raxi thought, but held her tongue for the sake of her curiosity. 'The Wailers request a bolster to their number next week, for the Songbirds will come to Gridania!'

Z'raxi's ears pricked. Z'rhale discouraged too much fraternising with other peoples wherever he could but being a diurnal race the huntresses often came across adventurers, travelling merchants and other nomads. As such Z'raxi heard many praises of these Songbirds the previous summer, the three women with voices like angels, humble countenances and morale-boosting verses. She longed to hear them for herself.

'Next week?' Z'raxi asked, unable to quell her excitement.

'This very sun next week!' the adventurer said with a nod. 

Z’raxi escorted the young elezen woman out of Keeper territory, trying her hardest to keep the urgency out of her gait, and through Z tribe territory just in case one of her sisters mistook the adventurer for a threat, the date of the Songbirds’ arrival in Gridania fixed in her mind. At the fringe of trees where the forest gave way to Fallgourd Float Z’raxi said her farewells to the adventurer, who waved enthusiastically until she disappeared beyond the undergrowth. 

During the week that followed Z’raxi did her level best to keep her excitement in check. There was no way Z’rhale would let her go if she asked, which meant she would have to sneak out of camp and head east without being followed. She couldn’t tell any of her sisters. If an entire entourage of them marched towards the city the nunh would get suspicious. No, this was a luxury she would have to enjoy alone. 

She counted each sun carefully as it passed while otherwise focusing on her other tasks. She brought back several hares from her traps and helped bring down a watchwolf that had been prowling too close to the camp with a band of her sisters. Nobody looked at her with suspicion or knowing and yet Z’raxi still felt uneasy. She spent the nights with her daughter trying to catch up with everything the matron had been teaching her. Mayhap if she were a few moons younger Z’raxi could have talked to her about the upcoming troubadours’ visit, but she was at an age now, not quite talking but starting to echo some words. And Z’raxi didn’t want to risk it. 

It was with no small amount of guilt that she handed over her little one to the matron on the dawn of the sun exactly one week from her meeting the adventurer. She was dressed and armed for the hunt, as she was every dawn before setting out from camp, but nevertheless felt self-conscious, as though she had forgotten something that made her stand out. 

Nobody stopped her as she headed east out of camp alone, knuckles white over the strap of her quiver. Five of her sisters had banded together to head north towards Coerthas in search of a drake and not one of them looked at her twice when she declined an invitation to join. Still, though, she felt as though eyes were on her as she ran into the trees. 

Wood Wailers and adventurers and travelling merchants all passed her on the road with friendly greetings or disinterested nods. It was strange to be out on the open road; she was so used to keeping to the undergrowth and deep shadows that meeting the eye of other travellers made her stomach churn. Her tail whipped around her knees and she struggled to keep her ears from flattening against her head. 

Several times she stopped and listened for the rustling of somebody in the bushes, or else the sudden ceasing of rustling of someone freezing nearby. She was convinced someone must be following, must have caught the scent of her secret. But there was nothing.

The gates of Gridania were unimposing and unimpressive, as humble as the Shroud itself. Z’raxi had passed by them before when game was scarce. The apprehension she felt on approaching the guarding Wailers mixed sickeningly with her excitement of getting to see the Songbirds and the exhilaration of defying the nunh’s wishes. One of the Wailers, a hyur with auburn hair cropped short and a scar across one cheek, nodded to her as she approached. ‘Cause no trouble,’ he said, though it sounded more of a greeting than a warning. 

Gridania itself was...lively. 

During feasts the Z tribe tended to come together as a single unit in ways it rarely did from sun to sun and so it wasn’t that Z’raxi was unused to so many people; it was more that she was unused to so many different types of people. Hyurs lined every corner and pathway, some of them dressed for travel and adventure but most clearly citizens of the city. A few miqo’te women, mostly Keepers, were among them. All but one that Z’raxi saw were clothed in adventuring gear. Elezen towered above everyone, smiling in their regal, high-brow kind of way. 

Z’raxi’s eyes widened and her ears pricked up as she turned a corner and spotted the Aetheryte Plaza with the great glowing blue crystal slowly rotating above the crowd. Weaving her way towards it, she began to understand that the city was likely not usually this busy. Everyone seemed to be making their way at various meandering speeds towards the old quarter. Z’raxi thought she might let the flow of people carry her towards the Songbirds, but wanted a closer look at the Aetheryte. 

The blue crystal glinted as it turned, shimmering in a way that was not entirely to do with the sunlight. She could almost feel the pool of aether that surrounded it and felt for the first time a yearning to have strong enough anima to utilise it. 

A figure blinked into existence before her eyes a fraction of a moment after she had the thought, a miqo’te man with dark hair glinting red in the light. Although his back was to her Z’raxi allowed herself a moment to appraise him; it was so rare she got to see any man that wasn’t Z’rhale or the elderly tia. Slender build but not wispy. She hoped to steal a glance of his face but he turned as soon as he landed – was that the right term? – and strode off down a passageway to the left before she got the chance. An adventurer, no doubt. She had heard from both the Keepers and other Seeker tribes that more tias were abandoning tradition in favour of the honour of heroism. From the olive tint to the skin on his arms she gleaned he was a Seeker. 

She turned away, her intrigue replaced by scorn, and followed the crowd towards the old quarter. 

Excitement simmered around the amphitheatre even though there was no sign of the troubadour group yet. Z’raxi looked around as she waited, restless with anticipation, looking into the faces of everyone gathered. People kept their voices low, murmuring to one another as though the music might start without warning and they were afraid to talk over it. 

And Z’raxi did catch the beginnings of a song before anybody appeared on the stage, so quietly sung that she thought she had misheard at first. She looked around and apparently a few others had noticed as well, but eyes landed on a figure perched on a rock just outside the amphitheatre, elbow leaning on one knee as he examined the strings of a lyre. It was the tia again. His song was one of the few surviving folk songs sung in the old miqo’te tongue. 

Z’raxi stared. She could see his face plainly now even though his eyes were downcast but she would never have recognised him without his singing voice. 

‘Kila!’

She all but shrieked his name and many of those nearest her jerked away, startled. Z’kila choked on the next note of his song and fell silent, head snapping up to stare wide-eyed down at Z’raxi and for a second the open, youthful face she remembered was visible in his features. She pushed her way towards him and he slid down from his rock, expression beginning to close off. 

When she reached him, so close she could reach out and touch him, her voice seemed to escape her. He was taller than she now, his hair longer, the youthfulness in his face beginning to recede. 

Someone somewhere behind her shouted out, ‘Is that the Warrior?!’

Z’kila glanced over her head, eyes shifting warily. ‘We can talk, but privately,’ he muttered, turning away. Z’raxi followed close on his tail, the Songbirds forgotten. 

He led her down a narrow path away from the amphitheatre where it opened up into a small clearing with a pool and a rocky waterfall. The area was deserted, everyone already gathered elsewhere. Z’kila paused before deeming it a satisfactory spot and Z’raxi narrowed her eyes at his profile. 

As a boy he had been so pretty with his round face and pink cheeks and wide honest eyes that he could have easily been mistaken for a girl before the dark markings developed around his nose; his mother had made it her mission to keep his hair cropped as short as possible lest anybody make that crucial error. When Z’raxi had seen him last he had just seen his eighteenth summer, reaching out for adulthood and brushing it with his fingertips.

He was undeniably a man now. He had grown his hair long so that it fell into his eyes and brushed the collar of his coat. His face was still round in that pretty way but his eyes had narrowed, the lines sharper and irises colder, the dark markings beneath stark against the olive. He used to always be smiling, a wide beaming smile with just a hint of mischief but that was apparently long gone, the corners of his mouth turned down in a frown.

Z’kila settled on a stone bench beside the pool beneath the waterfall and drew one of his knees up, settling his arm on it to better prop his lyre. Z’raxi caught the beginnings of a deep-rooted sadness beginning within her and gave herself a rough shake. There was no point in grieving the brother she’d known. He was right there before her. Alive. And that was better than the fate she had conjured for him in her mind. 

‘It’s good to see you, Raxi,’ he said at length, looking up at her with a small smile, a distant echo of his younger self. 

‘Is it?’ she demanded, the prickling heat at the back of her eyes threatening tears. ‘It’s been years.’

The smiled twisted into a grimace and he turned his attention back to his lyre, plucking idly at the strings. ‘I don’t believe exile permits regular visits. I trust Z’rhale is keeping everything well in order?’ 

She heard the pointed sarcasm in his tone, subtle though it was. _In order_ was something of an understatement and Z’kila had seen enough of the new nunh’s leadership to know how authoritarian he could be. As far as Z’raxi knew none of the women _loved_ their nunh, but they respected and trusted him. He had beaten the previous nunh after all. ‘We are surviving,’ she affirmed. 

Z’kila plucked at a string. ‘Glad to hear it.’ 

There was bitterness there. Of course there was. What else had she expected? She took a deep breath and made a concerted effort to gentle her tone. ‘Where have you been? I thought—we all thought you didn’t survive the calamity.’ 

His fingers faltered and–was that a flinch? ‘Well, as you can see, I’m perfectly alive. As for where I’ve been...’ He sighed heavily. ‘Everywhere. Nowhere. Depends on your perspective, I suppose.’ The corners of his mouth curled up in a cynical kind of grin, like his mischief had festered over the years into grim snark. ‘I have spent the last year or so travelling Abalathia’s Spine.’ 

Z’raxi blinked at him. ‘You would have to pass through Ishgardian territory to reach the mountain range, no?’ 

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘That I did.’ I grinned at the confusion evident in her expression. ‘Some of the titles I’ve acquired since last we met offer certain privileges. Entry into the Holy See is but one of them.’ 

And therein was the one thing that Z’raxi did not want to address. She had realised it the moment the individual called out in the amphitheatre. She had heard tales of the Warrior of Light, of the miqo’te man that walked with shadows and stepped on the wind, whose hair was dyed crimson with the blood of his enemies and eyes that shone like polished shields. She knew those tales, of course, had memorised a few to tell her daughter, and realised now that the description matched her brother almost exactly but she had never thought of him in such poetic terms before. She knew who he was and yet it didn’t feel quite real, like the figure from the stories and the man in front of her belonged to different worlds. His coat, she had to concede, with its fur-lined collar looked as though it was designed for colder climes.

‘...Z’rhale wanted us to extend our territory north into the highlands,’ she said for a lack of anything else to say. ‘You know. Before it turned into an icy wasteland.’

His lips quirked up in a grin that said he knew she was avoiding the subject. ‘I can’t imagine the Ishgardians would have taken too kindly to that even after the calamity.’ 

‘Do you think they would care if we kept to ourselves?’ she asked, genuinely curious. 

‘They’d care if they thought their meat supplies were under threat,’ he pointed out. ‘Food is scarce and they struggle to grow a thing. Hunting is all they have.’ He pondered for a moment and then he added, ‘Mayhap now they’ve rejoined the Alliance trade will ease some of those strains.’ 

Z’raxi eyed him carefully, a renewed understanding of him beginning to creep in to replace the old memory. ‘You were there for those talks?’ 

‘I was aware of their occurence. I have little to do with politics once I’ve slaughtered whatever it is they want me to slaughter.’ He said it with ease, too much ease, and he didn’t meet her eye. 

Z’raxi closed the distance and sat on the grass before the bench, gathering her legs underneath her. She took a deep breath. ‘The stories,’ she said quietly. ‘Are they all true?’ 

He hummed over his answer. ‘I expect they’ve all been embellished to some degree but they’re rooted in truth. I did fell a dread wyrm, for example, but I wasn’t alone in doing it.’

The mere thought of it made her shiver. Here he was, her little brother who had been nothing but lanky skin and bone when she saw him last and now had...not filled out exactly, but looked a little better proportioned. And he was the hero of the realm. How had that happened?

The first male born of the Z tribe in epochs was probably the most powerful man in the realm. If the tales were even the slightest bit true then he would be able to take down Z’rhale without effort. 

‘Kila, you could be Nunh,’ she said, looking at his boot. 

‘I know,’ he said without missing a beat. ‘I’ve thought about it.’

She looked up into his face and waited for him to go on but his eyes were still on his lyre, fingers playing a slow and sweet melody. ‘Then why don’t you come home?’ she asked, pleading really. ‘You could overthrow Z’rhale, relegate him to tia and take his place. No one would begrudge you the position. You were born of the Z tribe and you’re the Warrior of Light.’ The sudden acceptance of his title made her dizzy.

Z’kila stopped playing with an unpleasant _twang_ and he turned his cool gaze on Z’raxi. ‘And you would be quite happy with the future prospect of no more children? Assuming you have any at all?’ 

Z’raxi hesitated. He spoke a truth she hadn’t thought to consider; they were of the same blood so of course there could be no more children for her if he took the position of Nunh. The same was true of many of the women that were still of breeding age. 

‘Don’t worry yourself, Raxi’ Z’kila went on as the conflict played out across her face. ‘I haven’t any desire to return, as Nunh or otherwise.’ 

‘Whyever not?’ 

He sighed and she caught the roll of his eyes as he returned to his lyre. ‘When the tribe is all you know, for a tia the prospect of becoming Nunh is the best we have. But beyond the borders of your territory is one big world with so many different people with conflicting ideals and morals and they all think theirs is the best way, and there are so many dangers as a result of it. I can’t go back to that tiny little world of the camp and that small section of the Shroud now that I’ve seen all that.’ 

Z’raxi frowned at him. ‘...But, you could lead the entire tribe. Everyone would answer to you and heed your word as law and you would have your choice of women-’

‘And lie in my cabin doing _nothing_ all day except let the rest of you wait on me and tell me what’s going on in my tiny kingdom in which nothing happens nor matters and tell you whether to hunt more hares or drakes or ziz. It sounds so painfully dull.’ 

Her hackles rose at that, at the scathing dryness of his tone. ‘I do apologise that your family isn’t good enough for the esteemed _Warrior of Light!’_ she snapped, jumping to her feet and glaring. 

Z’kila scowled right back. ‘The Z tribe stopped being my family the moment I was exiled.’ 

‘How dare you?!’ she cried. ‘None of us, not one of us wanted you to go but we don’t have the power to go against Z’rhale! How can you sit there and say that we aren’t your family when there are young women and girls that need to be protected? Is some petty grudge towards one man worth denying them your strength?’ 

He snarled. ‘I believe I can protect them much better from horrors like Allagan machina and Dravanian hellfire by destroying them at the source, not sitting on my haunches in a hut somewhere in the forest!’

‘Yes, I know, I get it! I get how important you are now! I get that we’re too small for the attention of Eorzea’s hero!’

Z’kila dropped his lyre down and stood to match her height. ‘That isn’t even part of the issue! Conflict is rising in the east and and revolution is on the horizon.’ He pointed east above the Shroud’s canopy. ‘Baelsar’s Wall is in that direction and beyond lies Gyr Abania, a nation ravaged by the Garlean yoke, and any day now I could be summoned to join the front lines with the aim of liberation.’ He snapped his gaze back to Z’raxi’s. ‘Does that sound like something I can refuse? Do you really think I can turn my back on those starving hundreds knowing I have the ability to help?’ 

Z’raxi shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t return even if that weren’t the case.’ 

‘You’re right. I wouldn’t.’ He dropped his arm and lowered his gaze. ‘But it is so what difference does it make?’ 

‘The difference is that we’re your family. We share blood and culture and tradition. We can understand you in a way these politicians won’t even try to. They send you into these impossible battles and when you defeat the odds and come back still breathing they use you again! What have they ever done for you?’

‘They have _died_ for me!’ 

The ravaged cry seemed to be ripped from him by some external force, like the words were forced out against his will. His voice was torn and broken and spoke of a wound still healing. He turned away from her and hid his face. 

'I-I'm sorry, I didn't realise…' Z'raxi stammered and trailed off. The unimaginable pain in his expression had appeared as suddenly as his cry and she had been completely unprepared for it. She stepped toward him and rested both hands against his back. 'Forgive me, please.'

Z'kila took a quick, wavering breath and straightened his shoulders. 'It's fine. You didn't know.' He turned to face her and tried to smile, an awful false smile that was worse than his mocking grin. 'It was a little while ago now.'

She doubted that made it any easier. 'I am sorry.'

'I know.' He ruffled her hair between her ears and smiled again, a little easier this time. 'But I'm not coming home. There's… there's too much I have to do.' 

Z'raxi nodded and looked to the ground. 'Not now then, but mayhap… Mayhap when the world finds peace and you can retire? Mayhap then you'll come back?'

He looked away, back at the lyre lying abandoned on the bench. When he spoke again his voice was quiet. 'You and I can both guess the chances that I'll have the luxury of retirement.' 

She took a breath to point out that he wouldn't be so young and spry forever and there would reach a point where he couldn't fight anymore, but she saw the hints of dread in the tightness around his eyes and held her tongue. He didn't mean he would still be fighting as an old man; just that he would die before he got there. 

Tears pricked at her eyes again and she looked down at the ground again, blinking rapidly. Crying wouldn't help right now. Crying was the worst thing she could do for him. 

'You'd make a terrible Nunh anyway,' she said to her feet, voice wavering.

He stepped back, one hand going to his hip. 'Excuse me? Whatever do you mean?' She glimpsed his tail flick in mock indignation and smiled. It was comforting to see that there was a still a slightly feminine motion in the curling of his tail. 

'Nothing at all,' she said, forcing herself to grin up at him. 'Will you listen to the Songbirds with me? While we're both here?' 

He made quite a show of thinking it over, taking so long to answer that she smacked his arm. 'Alright, alright! I was going to listen to them anyway until somebody gave me away.' 

'You were the one singing in the old tongue.' 

'And usually no one cares.' 

Together they walked side by side back towards the amphitheatre in far more amiable spirits than when they left it. It was strange to walk beside him now he was older, taller. She watched his profile as they talked, thinking that the younger girls, those fathered by Z’kira’s successor, would be delighted with a nunh like Kila when they reached the right age. He was older now and quite undeniably masculine but still retained the beauty he’d had as a boy. If anything the grim set of his expression simply added to the power of his aura. His newfound cool confidence showed in the lopsided smiles and glinting eyes. 

He had been through so much, Z’raxi realised with another surge of sadness. Of course he was changed as a result. But he could still smile, could still joke and laugh and sing as he had done before. 

‘I think we might catch the second half of their performance,’ Z’kila said as they approached the fence, electing to hop over it instead of using the gate. The stage was empty but the bright colours of the troubadours lingered at one side and the crowd showed no signs of leaving, still animatedly chattering with one another. 

They made a space for themselves at the edge of the benches with their backs against the rock she’d found him sitting on. They fell into a comfortable silence as the Songbirds retook the stage and began their lovely songs, their voices aetherically enhanced over the excited audience. Beside Z’raxi with his lyre and soft voice, Z’kila seemed an accompaniment for her alone, unheard by anyone else. She could recall with perfect clarity how he would dance around the fire on feast nights with the the young huntresses, singing as well as the rest of them. In fact his sole boyish voice added a deeper level their songs had been missing for epochs. And now he could sing as beautifully as the Songbirds themselves. 

The magic of the moment burst the moment the Songbirds left the stage and the crowd began to slowly thin. By her side Z’kila was quiet a moment before he began to wrap up his lyre. ‘I suppose you need to return?’ he asked lightly.

‘I should,’ she admitted, making no effort to conceal her sorrow at the thought. ‘Before someone notices I left the territory.’ 

He knocked her shoulder with his. ‘I’ll walk with you as far as the border.’ 

Her ears perked up. ‘You will? But, what if someone sees you? What if it gets back to Z’rhale that you’re alive?’ 

Z’kila snorted. ‘He already knows. I’ve written a few letters to my mother and no doubt he’s been through her things at some point.’ 

Z’raxi could imagine the Nunh doing such a thing but it felt traitorous to agree and so held her tongue. They talked of far lighter topics as they made their way through the gate and along the road across the North Shroud. She eyed the hilts of the short blades on either hip and noted the absence of a bow but didn’t think to ask about it. She knew from the stories his preference in battle was twin daggers and didn’t wonder until it was too late to ask what had happened to his skill with a hunting bow. 

Z’kila stopped suddenly when his toes brushed the unmarked border and looked around, though this section of the forest looked identical to the rest of it. Z’raxi was impressed that he could remember exactly where the border was eight years later. ‘I’d best not go any further,’ he said with a small, slightly forced laugh. She thought she could spot regret in his gaze, but perhaps it was just nostalgia. 

Z’raxi’s feet felt submerged, as though taking a single step away from him would take monumental strength. To say goodbye or farewell seemed too final, too sad to consider. So instead she turned her eyes on him to say, ‘Will you come and visit me sometimes? Between realm-wide crises?’

The chuckle that drew seemed more natural, even as he scratched at the base of his ear like the question was difficult to answer. ‘...I think it would be unwise for me to linger around here too much. But I’ll see what I can do.’

Z'raxi threw her arms around his middle and squeezed. He patted her head between the ears.

'Until next time,' he said with a grin that showed his teeth as he stepped back. Z'raxi nodded, tried her best to smile back, and then forced herself to walk away.

This wouldn't be the last time she saw him. It wouldn't. Travellers passing through the Shroud always had a new story to tell about the Warrior of Light; that was how she would keep an eye on him. Mayhap she couldn't follow him and mayhap he couldn't return, but those stories would keep them bonded as family should be. But perhaps they could exchange letters too; he had said he'd written to his mother on occasion.

She turned back to ask him where she should address her letters. But he was gone, the space where he had been heavy with his absence. 

That night on returning to the camp she passed by Z'kila's mother. She was kneeling before a low table covered in various herbs freshly gathered and mixing what looked to be a pain-relieving concoction; too old now to hunt, perhaps, but not so old that she was confined to her hut. She looked up when Z'raxi lingered close by. 'Hello, dear. Is there anything you need? Are you hurt?'

Z'raxi took a breath to ask why she had never told any of them she had letters from Z'kila. Near enough all of the huntresses that shared his blood had adored him and mourned him like one would following a death when his exile was announced. But that would reveal that she had seen him, and she knew his mother would take off into the trees without so much as a hunting knife if she knew he was close. So Z'raxi forced a smile and said, 'Just aching a little.'

'Ah, well, I have an ointment that warms the skin that may relieve some of the strain…' 

Next time, for she was sure there would be a next time no matter how long it took, she would try to find a way for Z'kila to see his mother. He mentioned letters but not that they had met since. Z'raxi would have to fix that. No matter how old he got or how many times he saved the world, a man still needed his family.


End file.
